


Portraits of Roger Sleeping

by mystivy



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-17
Updated: 2012-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-10 04:31:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystivy/pseuds/mystivy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roger and Rafa find time to be together for one night in Sardinia.  (Set in summer 2012.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Portraits of Roger Sleeping

They didn’t have long in Sardinia. Roger rolled up to the house at around eight in a dark-windowed Mercedes and Rafa watched as he told the driver to head on, that he’d call him in the morning. The house was empty. The guys had all gone back to Mallorca, Rafa supposedly among them. He’d quietly follow tomorrow.

“Hey Raf,” said Roger, smiling, and Rafa closed the door behind them.

“Hey Roger,” he said, and then he kissed him.

Roger’s stubble was rough against his face and his shirt was flimsy in his fists and it wasn’t long before Rafa had him backed up as far as the couch in the living room. They didn’t even wait to get naked, just opened their shorts and started rutting into their joined hands. It was always like this when it had been a few weeks, always fast and rough at first, especially when they had plenty of time for gentle later. It was all tongue and breath and hands and cock and it took neither of them long before they were stretched taut and coming. They had to take their shirts off after that.

Rafa had pizza from some place in town that made pizza to die for, he said, and they took it back to the couch with a couple of sodas and sprawled out together, their legs entangled and Rafa leaning in against Roger’s arm. Roger told Rafa stories about the girls, told him they were staying with Mirka and his parents in the resort, and Rafa told him about snorkelling off the boat and the fun he’d had with the guys, but as the night fell Rafa took Roger’s hand and brought him to the bedroom which overlooked the bay. Rafa said, “Don’t worry. No one can see in. Only we can see out.” And Roger stood for a moment looking out to sea.

Rafa put his hands against his back and hooked his chin over his shoulder. They were there, too, in the glass, dim reflections, and in their silhouettes Rafa could see the lights of boats in the bay and the blinking of a single buoy. “Come to bed,” he said, and Roger turned and did.

Roger laid Rafa out on his back, and Rafa could feel him tentative with his knee, and he said, “The pain is gone, Roger,” smiling. “No need to be so careful, no?”

Roger kissed the healing scar from the infiltration and said, “I’m always careful with your knees, Rafa, you know that,” and he sank down and in and Rafa sighed a long, deep sigh that became a groan. This time it was slower, softer, sweeter, and they whispered together as they moved.

Afterwards they slept, and outside the sea was as black as the sky.

Dawn bled slowly into the room and Rafa woke with the light. Roger was warm and loose beside him, turned away from the windows, one arm slung across Rafa’s chest. Rafa ran his fingers gently from Roger’s shoulder to his hand and Roger murmured but did not wake. The room was in half-light. Rafa wished it could remain dim and sleepy for days, wished time with Roger could stretch out beyond one more morning. Always the same. It was always the same. Stolen time rolls faster, he thought, on and on towards one more ending.

Maybe then he half-dreamed for a while; he dreamed it was the first time in a hotel room in Key Biscayne, sunlight seeping something like this through linen drapes in a low-ceilinged room. Or maybe it just seemed low in his memory, in the soft golden silence of dawn, Roger’s steady breath against his shoulder. And soon after, in Rome, late in amber-soaked night, the slatted light of streetlights falling across Roger’s back as he slept, and Rafa lay beside him tracing the shadows on his skin with his fingertips. And then in the days before Wimbledon, in the cool grey light of evening as the rain ran down the windows, Rafa curled against Roger, his hand flat against Roger’s chest as it gently rose and fell. His dark curls were tousled against the white cotton sheets. Roger slept deeply, he slept avidly, he slept as if he were consciously dedicating himself to it. When he dreamed, his face flickered with expression, sometimes so faint and so fast as to be unreadable; when he did not, he simply lay languid and warm in Rafa’s arms, his breath even and his face soft and still.

Morning would come, and Roger’s eyes would open, and he would smile and say “Rafa” in a quiet, sleepy voice, and maybe they would have sex again and maybe they wouldn’t, depending on how much time was left. Time, always so little time.

But never so little that Rafa was not content to lie tangled with Roger as he slept.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by timour's post at Fedal Slash on LJ. Title borrowed from Elizabeth Peyton.


End file.
